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| Soul Survivor |
http://www.salon.com/weekly/clash960617.html |
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| sasca |
A typically generous and intelligient piece. |
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| Nellcote |
http://www.salon.com/weekly/stones960617.html
But, read this one, for a hoot about Keith! |
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| jb |
Nellcote...unfortunately, I have very bad feelings about tonight..ala 1986 Penn State fiasco....i took my money off the boards... |
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| Nellcote |
You have let the Phins game jaundice your true feelings! |
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| jb |
Yes..I am still reeling from that..but I am very concerned about tonight..My gut feeling is Ohio State 28 Miami 14. I hope I am wrong... By the way, the prices are coming down..was offered Sec3, row 4, for 3200 a piece for the 16th..but I want the 18th...
[Edited by jb] |
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| FPM C10 |
quote:
sasca wrote:
A typically generous and intelligient piece.
Yeah, it took a minute to realize it wasn't THAT Bill Wyman. Unless he was 18 in 1977. If memory serves, he had actually just turned 70.
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| lotsajizz |
quote:
jb wrote:
unfortunately, I have very bad feelings about tonight..ala 1986 Penn State fiasco....i took my money off the boards...
Have faith fellow 'Cane--there shall be dancing in the streets of Coral Gables this evening (and blow in Pearson/Mahoney),
Sean, Class Of '86 |
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| Pants Make the Man |
quote:
jb wrote:
Nellcote...unfortunately, I have very bad feelings about tonight..ala 1986 Penn State fiasco....i took my money off the boards...
Phucking brilliant move. Miami's almost incomprehensible run is coming to an end, or so it seems. Miami will take their place alongside Oklahoma, Notre Dame, USC (the original dynasty), Alabama and Nebraska as a dynasty benchmark. |
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| Pants Make the Man |
Uh-oh... |
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| Street Fighting Man |
I think this cat is the same guy accused of impersonating the "real" Bill Wyman!
The Clash
"London Calling"
(Epic, 1979)
By BILL WYMAN
Spiritually, if not chronologically (it
came out in late December of 1979),
"London Calling" was the first record of
the 1980s.
The fall of 1979 had been a
winding-down time for punk, which for
college freshmen like me was the only
music worth thinking about. But the
complex mix of corrosive sociology and
sheer force of albums like "Never Mind
the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols" and
"The Clash" -- or even a bit of blithe
timelessness like the Ramones' "Rocket
to Russia" -- were by then a bit distant,
a bit married to their place and time.
This was just a year or two on from
1977, of course, but an age emotionally,
particularly for 18-year-olds. I'd worked
in a Telegraph Avenue record store in
Berkeley until the end of the year, when
the chain collapsed. I came back from
Christmas vacation on a cold day in
early January and wandered into Tower.
With a retail pro's eye I immediately
spotted stacks of a new Clash album.
Never had I been so shocked at the very
sight of a record: On the cover was
surely one of the most visceral rock
photographs ever taken -- Paul Simenon
doubled over, legs planted wide apart,
ready to smash his bass down on the
stage of New York's Palladium. The
design and type style was a marvelous
spoof of a classic Elvis album and in a
startling, dizzying burst of
record-company hyperbole, a sticker on
the front declared, "20 new songs from
the only band that matters."
The title track began with a comically
animated guitar-and-bass introduction
that quickly lost its sense of humor; it
was followed by a dizzying song cycle
that remains giddy and fractious to this
day. "London Calling" was personal and
political, loud and soft; it was made up
of rockabilly and pop, reggae and
ballads, indignation and romance. There
was a song about a drug dealer that
sounded like "I Want To Hold Your
Hand," a macaroni verse that
remembered the Spanish Civil War, a
heartless gag on Montgomery Clift,
essays on the Ten Commandments and
the seven deadly sins, ballads about life
in the suburbs and a card cheat, and a
series of utterly unromantic tales from
the unpretty demimonde the Clash was
both part of and appalled by.
"London Calling" was the first
sprawling, extravagant, unquestionably
great punk record. It ended with a secret
song, "Train in Vain," a shapeless and
whining but somehow uplifting tune
whose title reference to Robert Johnson
only made its intentions murkier. I
remember (though perhaps I dreamed it)
Casey Kasem talking about the song
when it became the most unlikely of
presences on "American Top 40": "Next
up," Kasem said in his chirpy voice, "a
song by a band that some people
think"--and here his voice changed as he
registered the meaning of the words on
the cue card he was reading --"is the
best rock 'n' roll band in the world."
"That's right, Casey," I said to the radio.
"And who else?"
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